


the jarring of judgement and reason's defeat

by Anonymous



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Barebacking, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, F/M, Hurt No Comfort, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Non-Consensual Oral Sex, Sexual Violence, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-30
Updated: 2020-01-30
Packaged: 2021-02-27 11:48:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,071
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22476655
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: He didn't choose any special day. Just a pleasure trip to a mediocre garden planet, the gormless humans off out of earshot, and a loaded blow gun.
Relationships: The Doctor/The Master (Doctor Who), Thirteenth Doctor/The Master (Dhawan)
Comments: 13
Kudos: 85
Collections: Anonymous





	the jarring of judgement and reason's defeat

**Author's Note:**

> The nastiest thing I've ever written! Please heed the warnings. I am not kidding. Title from Hozier's 'Angel of Small Death and the Codeine Scene'.

The real point of the games the Master played with the Doctor had always been the chase. It wasn't even really about winning- that self-righteous goody two shoes tended to win far more often than seemed fair, aided by whatever gormless humans bumbled into that stupid phone box TARDIS- but the plan unfolding, the cat-and-mouse, the look of dawning horror when the real culprit became clear, those were the thrill.

Something was different in his newest body, though. His patience for games was waning. Might be psychic feedback from shooting his own reincarnation, or delayed onset… whatever from the resurrection ritual; the only people who would have known for sure were ashes, now, by his own hand. Didn't matter. Straightforward brutality was so much more simple, and the Doctor so much worse at seeing it coming.

He didn't choose any special day. Just a pleasure trip to a mediocre garden planet, the gormless humans off out of earshot, and a loaded blow gun.

It was a clean shot, right in the neck, clear of the carotid artery; the Doctor didn’t even have time to make a sound before her legs gave out. (Her legs? His legs? They hadn’t had time to talk pronouns, but she’d let the humans call her ‘her’, and the Doctor had never been shy about correcting people.) "Don't worry," the Master murmured, catching her neatly under the armpits. “Or, well. Maybe do worry. Hypaxian curare takes Time Lords kind of funny, sometimes.”

The Doctor’s head bobbed against her chest as he dragged her through the underbrush to a more secluded clearing. The Master laid her down on a little mossy rise amongst the roots of a spreading tree, and took a moment to really savour the look in her eyes- anger, and fear, and a delicious uncertainty. “Quite a substance, this,” the Master said, pulling the dart out of her neck and holding it up so she could see. “Dandy little neuromuscular blocker. Bioengineered to bypass the lungs and larynx. You can breathe, but you can’t do much else.” He lifted one of her arms, waggled it about in demonstration, and let it drop to the ground. Her eyelids flickered, just a tiny bit, and he smirked. “Doesn’t block sensation, of course. They pair it with an anaesthetic for surgical use, but that seems like a terrible waste to me.”

He crouched over her, tilting her chin up. Her eyes were still open, wide and shocked, but the rest of her face had relaxed. She looked soft like this, sleepy, almost, but no amount of paralytic agent could change her eyes when she looked at him. Perfect.

Getting her out of her clothes was a little more trying. The Master still hadn’t decided, even now, if he wanted her naked, or if halfway out of her clothes- her one outfit, why did she only ever have one outfit at a time, ridiculous- would be more effective. He unlaced her boots, peeled off her socks, and unhooked her suspenders without much effort, but getting her jacket off didn’t seem possible without dislocating one of her shoulders. Not a bad thought, but not his immediate goal. Her shirt came up easily, though, revealing a sweet little pair of breasts. “No bra? Tut tut, Doctor,” he said, cupping them and giving them a cruel squeeze. Her nipples stayed soft under his pinching fingers, her body unable to respond even that much. “Do your humans know you’re swanning about the galaxy without undergarments?”

That didn’t turn out to be true; when he lifted her hips to pull off her trousers, she was wearing disappointingly utilitarian pants beneath them. Shaking his head, he took those off as well. She made quite a picture, sprawled out on the forest floor in just her coat and her pushed-up T-shirt. All her lives she'd had a preference for what you might call modest attire; when he first saw a photo of the scant inches of lower leg her latest uniform revealed, he'd almost felt faint. Exposed like this, she looked obscene.

Well. Not quite. He could fix that.

Shuffling around, he nudged her legs open and knelt between them. Somewhere along the line she'd picked up the habit of shaving them, like so many Earth women did, but a golden tuft of hair remained over her pubis. It made him feel oddly nostalgic. It was ages since she'd last been a blonde.

Other than that, it pretty much looked like a vulva. Structurally similar to the one he'd had before, but the skin was smoother, and her pubic mound more pronounced than his had been. That was the Doctor all over, really. Like him, but softer and rounder. "Done much road testing of this model, have you?" he asked idly, prodding her labia apart for a closer look. "I didn't get much out of this setup myself, but you know me- never been particularly keen on being on the receiving end."

Spitting on his fingers, he shoved a couple into her cunt, just feeling around a bit. She wasn't wet at all. Honestly, the Master wasn't sure how wet she could get, all floppy like this, but that was alright. He'd fucked the Doctor in less accommodating holes. "Had any of your grubby little humans up here yet? Can't think why else you'd keep so many of them around. Very accommodating species; they'll fuck just about anything. Not particularly durable, though," he said, clicking his tongue theatrically.

Fingering her kept him amused for a little while. Turned out she could get wet under paralysis, which was convenient, and for all she was tight, she was a lot easier to open up here than some of her other holes had been- he'd got four fingers up her by the time he got bored. The quiet was starting to bother him. Monologuing was one of the Master's great joys, and usually the Doctor's vapid interjections merely irritated, but the lack of response threw off his rhythm a bit. Oh, well. He'd have to amuse himself with her mouth some other way.

He yanked his fingers out and crawled up her body, crouching over her chest. He'd been hard since his dart sank into her neck- how terribly Freudian- and the ache was now sufficiently insistent that it made getting his trousers open a challenge. Cradling her head in his hands, he fed his cock between her lips, air hissing out between his teeth at the feeling of her wet tongue. Her mouth was small and hot around him, her breathing shallow, and it took the barest push to get the head of his cock into her throat. Oh, that was nice; the bioengineering that let her breathe gave him delicate flutters of sensation, her pharynx spasming weakly as her body fought the intrusion. Hardly the dramatic gags and splutters of proper throatfucking, of course, but you couldn't have everything, could you.

Fucking her mouth was an absorbing pastime, but labor-intensive. He had to do all the work, moving her head up and down with his hands, to get any kind of friction from the inside of her slack mouth, so mostly he fucked her throat in short jagged thrusts, pushing in and staying deep. Time Lords were tricky to asphyxiate, but he pulled out every so often to let her breathe, just in case, and to enjoy shoving back in, too. "Bit sloppy there, Doc," he said, smearing his prick through the mess of drool and precome on her chin and cheeks. "Your technique isn't quite up to scratch. I'll never come at this rate."

Objectively it was impossible for the Doctor to look at him reproachfully- she couldn't move her eyes or the muscles around them at all- but he fancied he could see it anyway. He let her head fall back against the ground with a thunk, and swung his leg over to spoon up behind her. Her limp body was heavy and unresponsive as a corpse, and he amused himself by digging his nails into her sides as he arranged her on her side with her backside out and accessible.

Thrusting idly into the crease of her thigh, he debated which hole he wanted. She'd be tighter behind, and feel it more, later, but getting his cock in there would be so much more work. By comparison, her cunt was already wet and soft against him, and had the appeal of novelty; a rare currency, between them.

It didn't take much effort to lift the Doctor's leg out of the way and sink in. She wasn't quite wet enough to fuck into smoothly, but that was fine. The drag helped, somehow, made it feel less like lovemaking and more like the violence it really was, even as the Master curled his body around the Doctor's unresisting form and held her close against him. It felt amazingly good to fuck her like this, moving her where he wanted her, and with none of her inane babble, for once.

It would have been nice to make her come. With her stupid sonic screwdriver jammed up against her clit, maybe. She'd feel even better inside, clamping down around him, but she couldn't so much as sneeze, much less come, until the curare wore off. Pity. He could just picture the indignant, scrunched-up face she'd make as he forced her into unwanted pleasure. 

She felt pretty good anyway. And she smelled good, too, sweet and sickening; she smelled like home. No matter what hormones and perfumes she muddied her chemical profile with, he could find the Doctor in a crowd with his eyes closed. The scent of her made his chest feel tight, made the drums pound louder in his head, made him yearn to fuck her and chase her and kill her a thousand times over. 

His hips moved faster, his body pressing hers down into the moss beneath them. He could kill her now, if he wanted to. With all her muscles relaxed, he could snap her neck with hardly a moment's effort. She'd only bloody regenerate, though, and make a fuss about the whole thing. And she might not have a sweet little cunt for him to fuck, next time. Maybe he was getting soppy in his old age.

Or maybe it was the thought of how she must feel, helpless in his hands. How she'd feel later on when she remembered this. What it would be like for her when her human coterie found her when he was done playing with her; how her daft little pets would look at the wreck he was going to make of her, how _violated_ she'd feel-

He came, shuddering, shoving as deep inside her as he could get. Beneath him, the Doctor let out a tiny moan, her larynx doing what it could to register protest despite her uncooperative mouth and tongue. She might, perhaps, have been trying to cry.

Once the aftershocks were done, the Master pulled out, a trickle of come leaking out in his wake. The Doctor mewled again, high and sharp. Rolling her onto her back, he took a moment to survey his handiwork. She certainly looked a mess; tear tracks on her cheeks, bits of dirt and moss stuck in the precome and spit he'd left on her face, thin red scratches down her torso. No bite marks; bit of an oversight, there.

From amongst the trees, he heard human voices, still distant, calling the Doctor's name. Time for the finishing touch. Tucking his softening prick back into his trousers, he took a marker out of his pocket, and uncapped it. Tongue between his teeth, he drew, in thick, black lines, the looping symbol that was his name in circular Gallifreyan, right in the middle of her stomach, framing her bellybutton. For good measure, just in case the humans were too stupid to get the message, he scrawled PROPERTY OF THE MASTER down the inside of one of her thighs, with a helpful little arrow pointing up to her ravaged cunt.

The voices were louder now, and he could hear feet scuffing through the underbrush. He capped his pen, and stood up, brushing leaves and dirt off his suit. Moving silently, he vanished between the trees, only a little disappointed to miss the scene about to unfold behind him. Yes, this was a promising start. He already had ideas for next time.


End file.
